


The last time you have hands

by lemonbalmlemonverbena



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonbalmlemonverbena/pseuds/lemonbalmlemonverbena
Summary: Violent and/or smutty. Swear words. Explicit sex words. Horrible shit happens in this world, but not to Sansa and Sandor (this time), and there's a bit of frictionless wish-fulfillment so you could also call it fluff. Set at Winterfell during the Great War (post 7x07). Sandor's POV.Comments feed the writer.





	The last time you have hands

He’d spent the last six hours fucking Sansa Stark.

He thought maybe it was all a dream, but he was pretty sure he was still tasting blood she’d drawn when he’d pulled on both her nipples—hard—in the middle of a kiss. She’d nearly bit through his bottom lip, seemingly half in instinctive response to the sensation and half to punish him.

The tiny, bony, beautiful bird was tucked in between his arm and his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, her feathers spread out over his arm and the rumpled, stained sheets. Running his fingers through the silk of her copper hair could keep him busy forever. Every time he found a knot and teased it apart with his fingers, she seemed to nuzzle deeper into the nest she’d made out of his body and the bed.

Seven hells, he hadn’t expected a damn thing from Sansa Stark in Winterfell. He thought the odds were better than even that they’d just take off his head. Who knew what she thought of him, a shadow of a memory from her years as a prisoner of her family’s enemies?

Not to mention that his resurrection only meant that his name would be put back on Arya’s little list.

She hadn’t said a word to him for days. Not when he arrived and not once after. Just looked at him with those big blue eyes.

And that was fine by him.

_He wasn’t here for her._

_He’d never have gotten within a hundred miles of the North if it weren’t for the army of the dead._

He tried not to stare at her when they were in the same space.

Arya and the Others had been plenty to keep him occupied. And then tonight at the brother’s wedding—this fucking family and their tragic weddings—he’d heard her screaming Arya’s name.

“Arya! Arya! ARYA! Don’t you touch her!”

And there in the yard at Winterfell, same as it ever was, some son of a bitch was beating on those damned girls. He’d already noticed Sansa’s quiet disdain for Lord Glover, heard it in her voice in the Great Hall. Whatever their grievance, however it unfolded, he was sure that drunk fucking Glover had felt perfectly right in backhanding his liege lady.

He was sure he and Arya had felt the same kind of blinding rage at the sight of the cut on Sansa’s face. Glover wore heavy rings topped with faceted gems. The jewels slashed her, same as knives.

When he came into the scene, snow crunching under his boots, the iced air stinging his nostrils and eyes, Sansa was bleeding down her cheek and screaming for her sister, while Arya was hanging off the back of the good lord’s neck, and that white-bearded motherfucker was in the process of smashing her tiny little body into one of the heavy posts around the edge of the yard.

The rest of the fools there—some even had blades drawn—simply stared and did not a damn thing.

Arya saw him coming and knew, but nonetheless positively oozed resentment as she’d slid off Glover’s back. She still wanted to be the one to punish the cunt, but the cunt was five times her size, had disarmed her and was on the verge of smashing in her skull. He understood the instinct though. They were the same.

Suffice it to say, in short order, Lord Glover no longer had hands.

He’d enjoyed cutting off the one with the man’s own sword, and then twisting the other off at the elbow, stepping on the man’s upper arm and wresting the lower arm upwards and wrenching it until the elbow snapped and the tendons ripped. He pulled it off the way another man would rip the leg off a rabbit.

He’d wanted to beat Glover to death, crushing any resemblance to a man out of his face, turning it to a mash of pulp and tooth and bone, but after the man had screamed for mercy loud enough and long enough to attract the attention of bloody Lady Brienne and every underling in the fucking castle, Sansa had touched him on the shoulder.

If it had been anyone else he’d probably have knocked them sideways, assuming an enemy had ambushed him, but somehow he could always feel those fucking Starks--smell them, maybe?

He just always knew where they were.

Sansa was just behind him on the left, Arya on the right.

_Fine._

He’d used Arya’s nice knife to slice open Glover’s chest, and then he ripped out the man’s heart. There. Mercy. No more pain.

And when he stood up--clutching the hot red muscle, long fat veins hanging off it, blood dripping into the snow--the fucking bird had smiled at him. She smiled at him and gestured to him, subtly enough for everyone else to miss but clear as day to him: give it.

She was still holding the man’s heart when Gawen had arrived and of course Gawen thought he ought to do something. Gawen was warned, by the man holding the knife and the woman holding parts of his father in her hands, but stupid boys like Gawen aren’t built to listen, they’re built to act now and pay later.

He’d killed the boy fast; blade in that soft spot at the back of the skull, up into the brain, quick.

And then, with Lord Glover’s body at her feet and his heart in her hands and his blood spattered all over her pretty dress the Lady of Winterfell had given all the orders one gives subsequent to exterminating an enemy.

She’d starred right in his eyes the whole fucking time, never so much as flinching or blinking or sparing a glance for the maester (raven to the widow and orphan: come to Winterfell under Stark protection or leave the north forever) or the master-at-arms (settle the soldiers here, send a detachment to Deepwood Motte) or the steward (take their steel, burn their bodies) or even Arya when she said, “See to that hand. It looks broken. And then go find Jon and tell him ‘House Glover is dead.’ “

The way she said it he knew that Wolf King wouldn’t flinch at the news any more than his sisters had. A nuisance, resolved.

Glover’s penalty was death, and Sandor Clegane was simply a faster, more efficient weapon than a hundred Stark swords.

Gods, she’d changed. Savage now.

“The world is built by killers, so you’d better get used to looking at them,” he’d told her a couple of lifetimes past and somehow she had learned to look. The way she never budged, not a muscle, standing there with her long white neck exposed to him so she could be as close to him as she was and still look in his eyes, she wanted him to know that she had learned to look.

And then the Stark retainers were gone and Arya was gone and it was just the two of them, and his vision went as red as it had when he’d seen that his girls were being hurt by some useless fuck.

Except this was different and he couldn’t very well rip off that blood-drenched dress in front all those strangers and she’d ordered him a bath (“See if you can find a extra-large tub,” she’d said with so much emphasis on 'extra large' that he’d almost choked) and Brienne of fucking Tarth was watching them both with that gormless concerned look of hers.

He eyed the spectators around them, the audience assembled on the walkway above to watch the scene. _Fuck all of you. Mind your business._

“Thank you,” she said.

_Thank you? Very glad to be of service, my lady, by slaughtering your vassals at a family wedding in your own damn home, or by otherwise being of use to you._

_I owe you a thousand more bodies before I’ve begun to make up for what I left you to face alone._

SEVEN HELLS, WOMAN was what he wanted to shout into her precious face, but all he said was “Stark,” and she said, “Clegane,” with a nod and a wry twist to her pink mouth. And then they went their separate ways.

He’d wondered for hours what a girl like Sansa Stark did with a human heart.

He’d gotten his bath, in an extra-large tub.

Arya had installed him in what she called “Jory’s old room” whoever the fuck Jory was and maids came and made his bed and started fires for him. Ridiculous. His funny little soldier girl kept bringing him sour wine he didn’t drink (much) and roast chickens that he did eat, and regularly delivered stories about all the court intrigues and wars in which her brother found himself embroiled. He could swear she was taking care of him now, but he knew she’d deny it if he asked so they just didn’t talk about it. Damned if the little one didn’t feel like...a friend?

He’d been lying on his feather bed in his own room _in fucking Winterfell_ , clean from an actual hot bath, warm under covers, warm from the fire in the room, trying to understand his place in this strange kingdom when he’d heard the knock.

He’d growled. Fucking maids had already taken the tub, what the hell else was there.

But it wasn’t a chambermaid on the other side of the door, or a soldier with a summons to another fight with White Walkers, but Sansa Stark. Her face was hidden under a great black hood, her body under a long black cloak. She peeped up at him with those blue eyes, and looked anxiously down the hall. She was...nervous? Her eyes begged him not to leave her out there.

He’d been inexplicably enraged to see her there and he’d probably pulled on her tiny fragile wrist too damn hard when he yanked her inside and slammed the door.

He looked down at her little hand now, tucked under his, their two hands curled up together on his bare chest. He couldn’t see her particularly well in the dim light cast by the embers, but he didn’t see any bruises forming where he’d grabbed her like that.

He’d pulled her inside and pushed her back against the inside of the door and left her there and backed halfway across the room.

This was the most dangerous thing he could imagine.

“Stark, what are you doing here?” he’d asked. A young unmarried lady of a great house could not be seen in the rooms of a soldier. What was she thinking? There was no lie he could think of that would protect her if she was caught.

She just shook her head at him. “The doors are quite heavy. No one can hear you. You don’t have to call me that in here.”

He inhaled sharply, and took a step forward, trying to move slowly and reassuringly, as he would when facing a cantankerous warhorse or an agitated mongrel in the street. She pushed her hood back. Her hair was damp. Her skin was clean of the blood droplets that had splattered on her cheek and forehead after he’d killed two men in front of her. The cut on her cheek from Glover’s ring was closed and dry.

“Sansa, what are you doing here?”

She shook her head again. “Don’t call me that. The only men who call me Sansa are my brothers and liars.”

The terrified girl he’d thought of every day for years was gone, replaced by a completely terrifying woman. He’d fucked his fist to his fantasies of her so many nights. And she was in his room, her lips wet and parted. So close, and she wanted him, he could damn well feel her pounding heart and the hot blush on her cheeks from over here.

“Little Bird, what are you doing here?”

Is that what she wanted to hear? His pet name for her? Had it possibly meant something to her?

And then she reached up and threw the bolt at the top of the door, locking them in together, and stepped toward him. She reached up and clutched his tunic and nodded. That’s what she’d wanted to hear from him.

She blinked, collecting herself. She swallowed, making herself brave and then she touched his fucking scars with one hand and petted his bearded cheek with the other hand and said, “I don’t want to die having only been kissed by monsters. I want to be kissed by a man...please?”

She knew was she was doing and it near broke his heart. She was giving him everything he’d ever told her he needed back in those days when terrorizing her was the only way he knew to be near her. They’d always been drawn to each other, but they were impossible. Forbidden.

And yet he yearned so much for her that it had nearly poisoned him when he’d tried to drown that desire in wine and whores and maybe a little war now and then.

She’d thought of him when they were apart. She’d remembered what he remembered.

He’d given her another man’s scalding-hot heart tonight but he’d given her his heart to hold so long long ago.

He kissed her and she kissed him back. Their lips and mouths and tongues together were...it was lightning catching a ride from treetop to ground during a summer storm, and the warmth of rabbit fur lining a glove hand-stitched by a woman who loves you, and it was that first feeling of calm that comes over you after a deep slug of red wine, and it was the feeling of catching a blue dragonfly out of the air and feeling its wings beat against the prison of your hands before you set it free again.

She kissed him open-mouthed and eager, and they pulled back and their eyes agreed this felt as good anything had ever felt and there should be more of it. Then she’d muttered into his mouth, “Don’t stop,” and he’d grabbed her and found too many layers of fabric. Where was she? He needed her, not all this shit. She’d pulled back and untied the ribbons that kept her cloak around her throat and she shrugged it into the floor. There was still too much dove-gray dress and not enough of her opal-white skin but at least now he could find her body under there. He found her waist and then petted her lovely little ass and grabbed it and hoisted her up high and slammed her back against the door. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed into him and damn if she wasn’t climbing him so that her lips were there if he nodded up and her breasts were right there if he nuzzled down.

Fuck it.

He’d thrown her on the bed and stripped himself and she’d found some way out of that dress and the first time was just fast and hard and not polite at all--his cock near her wet slit was...He should have slowed down but she’d spread her pretty legs for him and pushed her pretty pussy near the tip of his rock-hard cock. He’d slid into her and it was like being inside wet fire and she'd hooked her ankles over the back of his knees and wrapped her arms around his chest and whispered into his neck, “Come into me. It’s all right.” She said “It’s all right” over and over again and hell if he didn’t lose control and fuck her like an animal and slam his seed as deep inside her as he could reach.

He knew he was too big and too sweaty and he rolled off her and tried for a minute to feel ashamed or something awful, but instead he felt so bloody proud, smug even. Hell if that wasn’t the best thing he’d ever done with his sorry life.

He was covered in her wetness, and his seed was dripping out onto the strawberry curls between her legs, and he was soft for hardly a minute before he looked at all that and was hard as steel again.

She rolled on her side to look at him. Her brown perfect nipples were hard and round as river-bottom pebbles, and he wanted to run his hand over the valley of her waist and follow it around to the hill of her little bottom. His cock jutted straight out and almost bridged the distance between them. She reached out for him, running those little fingers over the ridge at the top and down the shaft, and then brushing her whole hand up the line of hair between his cock and his chest. She wanted to play with him, all of him.

That time she fucked him, riding him as he sat on the edge of the bed, offering him her pert little perfect tits up to his mouth as she rocked against him and panted and cooed and moaned, grinding her clit against the rough hairs around his cock and balls.

Later, he’d licked her to a screaming release that she smothered by clutching both hands over her mouth and practically snapping herself in half backward.

She’d sucked his cock and swallowed his seed.

He’d flipped her on her belly and slapped her clit with his balls and smacked her ass with his hand as she braced herself against the headboard while he reamed her.

After that one she lay apart from him for a while and just looked at him while she stretched out her arms and legs and neck and torso in long rolling twists, like a cat who found a patch of sun-warmed clover in a shady orchard.

They kissed, just kissed, for long stretches, and he ran his fingers up and down her wet slit and fingered her gently and then hard.

And now they were exhausted but too raw and rough-used to sleep, so she was tucked between his arm and his chest and he had a handful of her satin-sheet curtain of hair.

She kept brushing her mouth against his skin as though that soothed her red, swollen lips, and her little foot kept sliding up and down his calf. His cock was soft for the time being, his balls empty. He’d seriously consider giving up one of those balls if he could keep her like this forever.

He felt her tense before she lifted her head and hoisted herself up and he started shaking his head “no” before she could even say it.

“I have to go.” The first real words she’d spoken in hours.

He kept shaking his head no and clutched her tighter, laying his heavy arm over her body. Her eyes wrinkled at the corners when she smiled an indulgent little smile and then she rested her chin near his collarbone, below where his beard ended.

He hadn’t dared to speak a word to her since naming her his little bird had set her upon him.

Starting unnecessary fights with his smart mouth was one of his specialties. He wouldn’t fucking do it. Not tonight. He just wouldn’t.

He didn’t know how to talk to this creature. He didn’t know her anymore. He loved every freckle and every nerve ending in her body and yet he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with her outside of this bed, didn’t know how he would begin learning what had happened to her since he’d deserted her or how he could live with what she told him.

_He didn’t want to know if this one night was all he would get. He didn’t want to admit that if he were a better man, this one night might be enough but he was a son of a bitch so he wanted all of her nights, forever._

_He wanted to know what would happen if his seed took purchase in her womb._

_He wanted to know why it felt like she loved him back and if that could be possible._

_He wanted to know was she ashamed of him. Would she hide him, deny him to the world? By all rights, she should, he knew, and yet he hated how much that hurt his heart._

_He wanted to know if she fucking thought he wouldn’t really wrap his hands around her neck and strangle the life out of her if she dared to fucking touch another man ever again. He’d kill her and all the men that ever lived and he’d follow after them to the grave if she--_

He sighed then, and hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her bodily over him-- _had she really been on his bad side this whole time? by choice?_ \--and he set her naked body on the edge of the bed and then nudged her pert little ass with his knee until she put her feet on the ground and stood up.

“Off with you then,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy.

He pulled himself up to lean against the headboard while she reassembled her things and put on her dress and her cloak and threw her soaked-wet, torn smallclothes into the fire.

He watched the cloth burn quickly and turn to ash, some flashing red and then white and drifting up into the chimney. Pity. That would certainly have been a fair token of a lady’s favor to keep tucked somewhere as he went off to fight.

She hovered by the door.

He thought about catching her and putting a collar around her neck and keeping her chained to the wall.

He tongued the inside of his cheek, searching for the blood she’d drawn earlier.

He tried to feel like every step she took closer to the door didn’t make his fucking skin hurt.

She looked at the fire and then at him and said, “I...I could come back tonight...I mean, if...”

_If I want? You could come back to my bed if I want?_

He chuckled.

Understatement was what they called that.

He nodded. _Yes, please._

She lit up with surprise and joy.

_THIS FUCKING GIRL._

And then she pulled the bolt and opened the door and peered out, looking for strangers who might be watching for her. There was no one, apparently, because then she slipped out and closed the door behind her.

He leaned forward and scratched his beard and wondered who the fuck he was now.


End file.
